


SNAFU

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's attempts to appear normal are not proving to be very successful</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With special thanks to my betas [Fengirl88](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88) and [Blooms84](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blooms84) who read a number of different versions of this story under a variety of titles. If it still doesn't work, the blame is all mine.

Some people think confession is good for the soul. Personally I reckon that careless talk cost lives. Or friendships, at least. If you think your flatmate's arrogant and imperious, or he's spotted that you have alcoholic relatives, it's risky blurting that out, rather than keeping your mouth shut. And it's also a good move to keep it to yourself if you're not quite normal. I'm not, never have been. I spend a lot of time trying to hide this, and it helps that I look quite ordinary, and can sound mostly harmless.

Take the 'About me' on my blog, for example. "My name is John Watson. I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan." This carefully conceals the fact that my full name is John Hilary Watson. (My parents are Catholic and I was born on St Hilary's day, but that's no excuse). And you would never know that I returned from Afghanistan a wreck. Or that I came close not to being a doctor in the first place.

***

Medical school teaches you to discipline your mind, but it's pretty riotous as far as bodies go. I thought that was wonderful when I got there, away from my parents' disapproving oversight. I wasn't the only one who went a bit crazy, of course; lots of us did, let loose in London for the first time. But I was the one who ended up taking things way too far.

Julie Porter was a trainee nurse at Barts, tall and dark and sexy as hell in her tight jeans. I'd copped off with her the first night we met, but I wanted to try something new after that, so I had a plan for the next time. I was drunk, of course; Julie was too. Which was probably why I was able to talk her into coming to the hospital with me and letting me tie her up to an examination couch. She looked gorgeous spread out naked like that, fuckable as anything. Only then I realised I'd forgotten the condoms.

"I'm not going through with this unless you find some!" Julie insisted.

My head was starting to hurt like crazy, but I rammed myself back into my trousers and stalked off to the vending machine in the Gents.

An hour later, a porter heard Julie's screams for help. He untied her and then came and found me: passed out in a toilet cubicle, pack of condoms still clutched in my hand.

***

The only reason I didn't get kicked off the course was that Julie swore blind to the Dean that the whole thing had been her idea. I went round to thank her, afterwards, and she told me never to speak to her again. But I sobered up after that, literally. Cut right down on the booze, found myself proper girlfriends and treated them nicely. I got through my training OK and then I found a job, a way of life, where they didn't mind me taking risks.

It didn't worry the army that I wasn't quite normal. They're there to teach your body and mind to do things they don't naturally want to. Like excessive numbers of press-ups. Like putting yourself in a situation where large numbers of vicious shards of metal might penetrate the soft vulnerability of human tissue. The army trains you to run into danger rather than away from it, and I found that all too easy to pick up. The hard bit was staying in control while I did so. But I learnt how to do that as well, eventually.

And then it was all over. A medical discharge, an army pension, and civilian life. And a therapist to help me adjust.

My therapist is called Ella, and I don't get on with her. But I've kept going to her once a week for almost six months now. At the start it was part of the discipline that got me out of my bleak bedsit, staring at the walls all day, all too conscious of the gun in my desk drawer. And since the army arranged the therapy for me, it would have seemed ungrateful not to take it up, given how hard it is for a lot of people in my situation to get access to help. So I turn up, and I do what I'm told, and...no, truthfully, I mostly don't do what I'm told. If I was still in the army, I'd probably be had up on a charge of 'dumb insolence' for my attitude to Ella. I'm outwardly compliant, but I am really not co-operating in any meaningful sense. Which is probably stupid of me.

***

Ella wanted me to have a blog, so I started one. Then she complained - no, observed - that I didn't write anything in it. And when I did start writing more, she observed that what I wrote was mostly about Sherlock, not myself. I pointed out that my readers found that more interesting, and she said that wasn't the point. So now she wants me to start writing down something more personal, confessional, even, for a purely imaginary audience. I think she hopes when I've done that for a while, I'll be willing to tell _her_ more about myself. But one of the problems, of course, is that I might end up telling her what I think of her. And that really wouldn't be helpful.

Ella disapproves of me, unofficially. She's too disciplined to disapprove of me officially – it's not just the army where you have to learn to control your feelings. But there is a patience about her expression sometimes that says she's only just stopping herself yelling at me for being a self-destructive idiot. I recognise that expression, of course – I wear it a lot on my own face, when I'm dealing with Sherlock.

Have I explained about Sherlock? I'm not sure that I can, or that you'd believe me if I did. So I suggest you google him, like I did. He's the world's only consulting detective, and everything he says on his website, 'The Science of Deduction', about what he can deduce is true. In fact, it's an understatement. When I finally got round to dumping some of the stuff I'd had in storage for years, he worked out my indiscretions at medical school from two minutes looking at one of my files.

"The lecture notes written when drunk abruptly stop," he commented. "The marginal doodles show a consistent taste for brunettes and a weak grasp of perspective, but you weren't wrecking pen nibs any more. You wouldn't have started surgery by that point, so it wasn't so much an improvement in your fine motor skills as you learning to control your more destructive impulses. Anything else I should have picked up?" I grinned, because it's fine when Sherlock knows that kind of thing about me. Not like with Ella.

To look at, Sherlock is tall and dark and thin and – I can't think of the words to describe how he looks, but there are lots of pictures of him on the internet, though none on his own website. He's posh, and brilliant, and arrogant, and spectacularly ignorant about some things. (I said that on my blog once – not a good move). Sherlock's also wonderful and horrible in about equal measure. And completely mad. I realise that's not an accurate medical description, but it's true. The reason a lot of people think I'm relatively normal is that I hang around with Sherlock and look sane by comparison, like those women who have ugly friends to make them look more beautiful. The reason a lot of other people think I can't be quite normal is that I hang around with Sherlock...

I am Sherlock's flatmate, friend and sidekick. I'd call myself his 'partner', but that word now implies that we're sleeping together, whereas I'm straight, and I don't like to think what Sherlock's sexual preferences are. Given his bizarre views on food, sleep and even breathing , anything might be possible concerning his attitude to other bodily functions. And while 'colleague' would sound better than 'sidekick', that gives an entirely misleading impression that I'm his equal, rather than his doctor, dogsbody, human guinea pig and skull substitute (don't ask). Also his bodyguard, when he allows it. Because despite the fact that he's six inches taller than me and knows various fancy martial arts, I've been trained to fight and kill.

The army taught me to do that, and then told me firmly that as a medic, I could only fight in self-defence. I've bent that rule a bit since I've been in civilian life, but only for a good cause: I've saved Sherlock's life several times as a result. He's saved my life every single day. By giving me back the battlefield I'd lost, the comradeship. It's thrilling, and terrible, and amazing to be with him.

It's also a lot more fun than you might expect with so many dead bodies around: we share the same warped sense of humour. I sometimes feel I can do anything around Sherlock. I had a psychosomatic limp when I first met him, but he soon sorted that out. Admittedly, he did it by a method so stupidly dangerous that I didn't dare tell Ella the details. I realised afterwards how reckless he, we, had been: you can't trick your mind and your body that way. Well, maybe you can, but you shouldn't, it can go spectacularly wrong. But just this once, it went spectacularly right. I can run, thanks to him, and I've got a reason for running again, not just sitting around, waiting to die.

***

Ella particularly disapproves of Sherlock. She's trying to make me normal and Sherlock subverts that. I claim that I want a normal life, and yet...I don't disapprove of him as much as I should. Perhaps because I fail at normal life myself fairly often. Like when I stormed out of a supermarket after a fight with a chip and pin machine.

I told Ella about the supermarket fiasco mainly to avoid having to discuss my nightmares again (not even Sherlock has sorted those out yet). I tried to make the incident sound harmless - couldn't get the scanner to work properly, my card got declined, I walked out without any groceries and had to go back later - doesn't everyone have days like that? But I ought to have realised she could make a big deal out of it.

***

"It's another pattern, isn't it?" Ella announced. "You sometimes find unfamiliar situations stressful."

"I was in Afghanistan," I pointed out. "You don't get much more unfamiliar than that."

"But you had a clearly defined role there, which helped you feel in control of the situation. At the supermarket, without that, things started going wrong. First of all, you were misinterpreting the actions of others. A chip and pin machine is not being socially judgemental if it refuses your card."

"I had worked that one out," I replied. "I know it's just a pre-programmed machine, has nothing against me personally."

"Which is why you were talking to it?"

"Possibly I overreacted."

"Because you were trying to suppress even more disturbing desires?"

"Oh God, you're not going to get Freudian on me, are you?"

"John, this isn't about repression, this is about conscious but impulsive urges to inappropriate behaviour. Or do you want to tell me that you had absolutely no wish to set about that chip and pin machine with a hammer, till there was nothing left of it but small pieces of plastic and metal?"

Despite my best efforts, sometimes Ella has worryingly good insights into me.

"Yes, but I wasn't quite convinced I could kill it with my bare hands," I admitted. "I have got problems, haven't I?"

"You will adjust eventually, I'm sure of it. But when you get into that kind of stressful situation again, you need to ask yourself two questions. Firstly, do I need to be in control here or can I just go with the flow? And secondly, if I do feel I must be in control of the situation, how can I re-establish that control?"

"Unfortunately, by the time I've analysed all that, there will be an even longer queue behind me at the supermarket, and the chip and pin machine will still hate me."

"John, I don't think you're really trying here."

***

Once Ella had seized on the theme of control, she kept on bringing it up, as if this was the lever that might crack me open in the way she wanted. Personally, I don't reckon I am a control freak, or I couldn't live with Sherlock. He's a man, after all, who's been known to put severed heads in the fridge, and whose actions once led to me getting strapped into a bomb jacket by a criminal mastermind. (Yes, both of these happened. No, honestly, you don't want to hear about them).

"Sometimes concern about control can get displaced," Ella announced last week, "so you need to ask yourself whether heated arguments over the kettle are really reactions to Sherlock nearly getting you killed."

"No, they're entirely justified arguments with a man who has the domestic ability of a not too bright five-year old. If he can open a safe, he is capable of making a decent pot of tea, if he just puts his mind to it."

"John, this isn't simply about tea, is it? This is about Sarah."

There are times when I don't know why I keep having the therapy, given that I don't want to talk to Ella about the war, or Sherlock, or Moriarty, or my family, or my love life, or about 90% of the other things I think about.

"I'm over Sarah," I said firmly. "I met this solicitor at an inquest yesterday, in fact. And we got talking afterwards, and I'm meeting her for coffee this afternoon. Her name's Mina."

"I see. You felt some kind of immediate connection to Mina, did you? You're hoping perhaps this might lead to something more?"

"Yes. Anything wrong with that?"

Ella smiled soothingly. "I'm just interested in exploring patterns of behaviour here, John. Your relationships with women, for example."

I deliberately tuned out at that point, because I didn't want to lose it, and end up making a scene. Behind all that professional language, I _knew_ what Ella was implying: that I was some kind of indiscriminate, horny brute, always chasing after women. I've lost track of how many times Harry has accused me of womanising over the years. Which is completely unfair, because it's not the sex. OK, it's not just the sex. I want someone to settle down with as well, and I know the type of woman I like, that's all. I go for clever, practical, tough-minded women, like the ones I trained with at Barts, fought alongside.

So when I meet someone like that, I try and get to know her better. Mycroft's sidekick, even though I didn't know her real name. But how was I supposed to find out what it was, unless I got a chance to spend time with her? And yes, I did go out on a date with Sarah very soon after she'd hired me. I'm not one for wasting time, and the women I go for don't mind a direct approach. Well, a reasonable proportion of them don't. It's just that I always manage to wreck things at a later stage.

It's not entirely my fault. Medical school and the army are both tough on relationships, always have been, what with the hours and the pressure. You need a very special woman to be a doctor's wife, or a soldier's. Or the wife of a consulting detective's assistant. I really thought that it would work out with Sarah, though. I liked her a lot, and she hadn't been put off by nearly being killed on the first date, and me narrowly avoiding being blown up a couple of weeks later. (You see what I meant about a very special woman?) And then it all went wrong, and I'm still not quite sure why. Sarah said it wasn't about me, but about her and maybe we'd been taking things too fast. But of course I wondered if it was the sex, although I'd enjoyed it, and I thought she had. Or if I'd somehow done something else wrong.

I try to behave like a gentleman, stick to the rules, but I sometimes feel they're changing them without telling me. And so I've ended up getting nowhere with finding someone, whereas Harry - who was shagging for England herself in her twenties – met Clara, who's lovely, just the sort of girl, woman, I go for. If she'd been straight, I would have made a beeline for her. But as it was, maybe I could make a go of it with Mina, because she seemed really nice...

"John," Ella broke in, "I'm sorry if I've said something that's upset you, but blanking me out completely isn't the most productive way of dealing with that."

 _Oh shit_. "Sorry," I said, and tried to concentrate once again on producing inoffensive and unrevealing answers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with an internet dating scam brings some unexpected side-effects for John

My sessions with Ella eventually finished, to our shared, if disguised, relief. But I did try to remember what she said about unfamiliar situations, because I knew that bit, at least, made sense. Though, of course, unfamiliar situations are par for the course when Sherlock's around. Like him suddenly enquiring a few months later: "Have you ever tried online dating?"

I didn't take it too personally. I knew Sherlock probably wasn't making an oblique comment about my currently disastrous love life. He is not naturally subtle, at least not about things like that. I also suspected that if his mind was connecting together me and online dating, it was probably with me in the role of human guinea-pig, rather than friend. At least, that was the more reassuring thought; Sherlock being altruistic has its own peculiar terrors.

"Why do you want to know?" I asked, in a voice that I hoped didn't sound too paranoid.

"I've got a case, a woman called Juanita Brown, who preys on men on internet dating sites."

"Unusual."

"Not really. There are a lot of vulnerable men out there looking for serious relationships. Willing to hand over worryingly large sums of money to a woman who tells them that she really cares for them."

"Sounds nasty. But is it illegal?"

"That's the tricky part. I'm convinced there's blackmail involved at some stage, but the victims aren't prepared to talk about that. Which is why a bit of undercover work is called for."

"You mean pretending to be looking for someone?"

"Yes. I, or rather you and I, are going to join one of the dating sites she's known to frequent."

"Why both of us?"

"Well, it's not so much both of us, more a sort of Holmes/Watson amalgam."

"In what precise way?" I should have known it was going to get weird.

"It's going to be your name and your social profile. Ex-army doctor, now working part-time, flat-sharing in central London, late 30s. That sounds respectable, not making huge amounts of money, but might be willing to hand it over, or find a way to get your hands on some more. Juanita doesn't target the high rollers or the poor, she's looking for the slightly desperate middle-aged and middle class."

"Thanks for that resounding assessment of me."

"She's not going to know you, of course, just your online persona. I'll give you the gist of what to write, then you put it in your own words."

"Don't you want to dictate the whole thing? I'm just your typist half the time anyhow, aren't I?"

"No, the e-mails need your prose style. Grammatical, but slightly tentative is what we're going for here. We want her to spot a victim, not someone whose writing oozes confidence."

"Or smug self-satisfaction?"

"Or indeed, that. She wants someone to exploit. I'm trusting, John, that you can make yourself sound exploitable."

Sometimes, I know just where I am with Sherlock. Frequently it's doing something so ridiculous that even his unaided lunacy isn't enough. So why not create a non-existent man to date a conwoman? It was all good practice for my writing.

***

Sherlock was right, of course, about what to say. My profile had only been up for a couple of days when Juanita Brown got into contact, though it was frustrating that Sherlock didn't allow me to follow up the three other women who'd emailed me. ("Two of them want to mother you, you wouldn't like that. The other one is really an elderly male, I'd guess a dentist").

"So is Juanita Brown really John Brown?" I asked. "Or possibly sitting somewhere in Nigeria or Russia rather than Poole?"

"No, she's roughly who she says she is, though a few years older than her profile. She doesn't do the whole scam over the net, the men she's interested in are too cautious. And I presume she doesn't ask for money in an e-mail, might be traced. She'll meet her victims, so we want to get onto that stage as soon as possible."

"Sounds good," I said. I carefully didn't add that I wanted this over quickly. Being 'John Watson' was a lot less enjoyable than I'd expected. In fact, it was starting to creep me out in ways that I couldn't quite explain.

"So our next move," Sherlock announced, "is to e-mail her my photo."

"Your photo? I thought it was me talking to her. Writing to her."

"For the e-mails you're fine, very good, indeed, but you're not going to do for the actual meeting. You wouldn't look right."

"Why not?"

"Too confident, not vulnerable enough."

"I'm not necessarily particularly confident on a date."

"On a real date, no, you might well come across as suitably awkward. But one of your endearing qualities, John, is how calm you get in any situation where there's the slightest chance of ending up in A and E. You couldn't convincingly be the bait in this trap."

Every now and then I do actually get a compliment from Sherlock, even if a bizarre one. It almost makes all of the insults bearable.

"So my plan," Sherlock went on, "is that I will attend the meetings, and hence Juanita needs to be sent my photo."

"And you can come across as a victim, can you?"

"Gazelle rather than shark look, don't you think I can manage it?"

"I'm sure you can," I replied. For a short time Sherlock is capable of becoming almost anyone, before invariably reverting to being the world's most irritating man. Then something occurred to me. "But what about the photo on my blog? If she's googled me, she might have found that."

"Your blog's not visible on the web."

"I updated it yesterday!" I paused and then asked: "Can you really do that? Make it so I can see it, but nobody else can?"

"Of course, but would you understand even if I did explain?"

"Probably not. OK, what do you want me to say, and where's the photo? If, that is, you haven't done something horrible to my e-mail as well."

"Your e-mail is fine, and I think you'd better choose the photo," Sherlock announced. "You've probably got a better idea of what appeals to women than I have. I'll show you the folders on my laptop."

"You have folders of photos of yourself on your computer?" I asked.

"I sometimes need them for reference purposes. See what you can find that makes me look emotionally fragile and liable to hand over large sums of money to anyone who's nice to me."

***

Any aesthetic pleasure I might have got from looking at pictures of Sherlock rapidly declined after the first thirty images or so. But it clearly wasn't vanity that made him keep all the pictures. There were some that showed him looking...you'd have to say 'beautiful', because 'handsome' is inadequate, there's a reason you can find a surprising number of pictures of him on the net. But he looked awful in others, if not actually ill, made it all too plausible that he had been an addict at some point. And then there was the one with the side-parting, and the maroon sweatshirt...

"Were you trying to look a complete prat?" I asked, grinning at him.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied. "It took hours of experimentation to find a colour combination that wrong. The artist I was talking to started confessing about his fight on the golf-course within ten minutes of seeing me, he was so unnerved. But I look too naive even for Juanita in that one. See what else you can find."

I decided after a while that you couldn't capture Sherlock properly in a still photo; you needed a video to get the full effect of his mercurial personality. But then I remembered that part of the point was that Juanita shouldn't get a good sense of him.

"I think this one's the most suitable," I said at last, calling Sherlock over again. "No 159. Were you on something at the time?"

"Strong painkillers. I had several broken ribs, which accounts for some of the pathetic look."

"You don't look much like an ex-army doctor," I pointed out.

"Probably not, but I'm trusting Juanita won't register that. Do I look as if I might have come out of that hospital drama which always has a bizarre accident in the first five minutes?"

"You mean 'Casualty'? I suppose so, yeah. Probably still a bit glamorous to be Juanita's victim. And you definitely don't look 38." If Juanita saw a picture of me, she'd probably be counting her ill-gotten gains already. It wasn't a very comforting thought.

"I see myself, John Watson that is, as insecure, worried that he's not the same man after his injuries, because this, of course, is a photo from before he's invalided out."

"What injuries have I, you, he sustained? I've told Juanita about the shoulder and the leg-"

"Well John isn't going to mention the facial scarring up front, is he?"

"So I'm now an ex-soldier with a shoulder wound, a psychosomatic limp _and_ a need for plastic surgery?"

"Yes, but on the other hand, you're also six inches taller, and you've got better hair. You win some, you lose some. So stop giggling, John, and I'll tell you what to say in the next e-mail."

***

I didn't think it anything like so funny the next evening, when I got Juanita's reply.

"I'm not answering _this_ ," I announced to Sherlock. "Even if Juanita looks like the photo she's sent. Particularly if she looks like that photo."

"I think she's Photoshopped a few pounds off, but yes, she is a good-looking woman. Weren't you expecting that?"

"Shame she's a manipulative sociopath, isn't it?" I replied. "You and she should have quite a nice date together."

"We haven't got to that stage, yet," Sherlock said, and stalked over to the table to glare at my screen. "So what it is it that you're not going to write?"

"She wants me to write something...intimate to her. She's suggesting something about any, any fantasies I have."

"Oh, that's good!" Sherlock said, grinning.

"It bloody isn't!"

"This is where the blackmail part comes in, almost certainly. So you need to send her something."

"No!" I yelled. "I can't, I can't write that kind of thing." This was getting well past Sherlock's normal weirdness. Even if I could work out how to make something up, the thought of what Sherlock might be able to deduce about me was really not good. "You do it," I added.

"She'd spot the change in writing style, even if I could make my ideas about what I'd like to do with her seem convincing. I don't know what your problem is, John. I'm sure there are websites that describe these kind of things."

"No." I stared up into his pale grey eyes, willing him to back down. Just sometimes I can do it, make him see there are limits. But I knew I was on shaky ground this time, getting too wound up about the whole thing.

"Why not?" he demanded.

 _Because I've spent a lot of time and effort keeping my fantasies safely under lock and key where they belong. Because this strange imaginary relationship between you and me and Juanita is starting to mess with my mind in ways I do not like at all. Because-_

"Because if I send that kind of e-mail, it's asking for the wrong person to see it," I said, which seemed the most sane objection I could give.

"I can arrange for secure communications, if that's really what's worrying you, John."

"But I'd still have the damn e-mail on file, and this is my computer, with Windows 666, the Number of the Beast on it. It's bound to spontaneously decide to forward any mucky e-mails I write to my entire address book, even if I've deleted the thing 15 times."

"It's amazing how paranoid you get about technology sometimes," Sherlock said, smiling. "But perhaps you're right. Perhaps John Watson isn't the kind of man who'd be able to explain the dirty things he wants to do with someone else. What can we do instead?"

I dropped my eyes as he started to think. Sometimes he can't bear people looking at him when he's trying to concentrate, says it distracts him. Sometimes I can't bear it. There's something inhuman about him then, when we all just become pieces on the board that he has to move around. He swirled around me at the table for a while, pacing back and forth. I looked at his back, his hands, his shirt, not his face. But I knew immediately when he'd thought of something, even before he bounded off to grab his laptop. What was he up to now?

He sat down opposite me, pulled my laptop towards him, stared at Juanita's message once more, then at me. Oh bloody hell, this was going to be something extra barking mad, wasn't it?

"As I said," he began, "John Watson can't talk about what he really wants. So it's fortunate that a picture's worth a thousand words."

"What are you going to do?" I replied, "And is there any way to persuade you not to?" My stomach was starting to knot.

"I'll send Juanita an indecent picture from your e-mail account. Don't worry, it'll be from my laptop, and I'll make sure it's securely deleted."

"What kind of indecent picture?" I croaked.

"One of John Watson, I mean me, naked," said Sherlock. "Again, it should probably be from before I came back from Afghanistan, because it'd be tedious to have to Photoshop on scars."

"You have nude photos of yourself?" I asked. I realised abruptly that I did _not_ want to see them – it would just be weird seeing pictures like that of your flatmate. Still, this was Sherlock. Weird was normal for him. In fact...

"Don't tell me," I said, "you have folders of them on your laptop, don't you, all carefully organised by date?"

"Of course," said Sherlock, his hands racing over his laptop. "But there's three folders of the special photos, and they're not all nudes. The first are from when I was working as a model."

"You were a model?"

"Briefly. It was hardly glamorous, but I needed the money. It was for a thermal underwear catalogue, though, and I suspect Juanita may prefer me without a warm vest on."

I gave a slightly shaky laugh. "And the next lot?"

"Undercover work. The last dating scam I took down, a couple of years ago. But that was a much bigger operation, the woman who ran it had a string of young men trawling after the middle-aged that time."

"And you were one of them?"

"I was one of the best." He would be, of course. He knows how to make himself almost irresistible sometimes, it's scary to watch. "How do you think I know exactly what you ought to be saying in your e-mails? But the shots from that time are rather too professional, in all senses. So it's the final lot, the ones that are obviously home-made. Have a look, see what you think I should send."

Before I could say anything, his laptop was plonked in front of me, now running a slideshow of pictures of Sherlock. Sherlock naked. From behind, from in front, lying down...

I was far too slow to react, but at last I gasped out: "Should you have pictures like that on your computer?"

"Would you rather have them on yours?" he retorted. I looked up, and there he was, bloody shark Sherlock grinning at me.

"I'm not gay!" I yelled, and slammed the lid of the laptop down.

"Your mind may not think so," said Sherlock smoothly, "but if you want to tell me your body's not interested, I'm going to take a lot of convincing."

"You fucking sod!" I could feel the rage surging through my system, but I knew it wasn't just rage.

"Well not yet, obviously, but I do have hopes."

Hitting Sherlock, or screaming at him, or ripping his clothes off were really not good moves. I settled for righteous indignation.

"Did you just invent Juanita Brown to play with my mind?" I demanded.

"No, she and her nasty tricks are real enough, and tomorrow we need to deal with her," Sherlock said. "Though I suppose I'm not that much better, exploiting a vulnerable man."

Sod it, I thought, Sherlock needed to be taught a lesson. Why the hell shouldn't I give him one?

"But _you've_ picked the wrong victim, haven't you?" I said, smiling back at him, and even though my heart was still pounding, I knew what I was doing now. We were at the top of the rollercoaster and there was no going back, so I might as well enjoy the ride. "You said it yourself," I went on, " I'm quite calm when there's a decent chance of ending up in casualty." I reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, and pulled him towards me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of sleeping with Sherlock things gets even more fraught for John.

One of the things I've had to give up as a result of associating with Sherlock is a belief in random human behaviour. Sherlock insists that everyone's actions have a definite cause, people's behaviour makes sense – at least to an ideal observer, who happens to bear a remarkable resemblance to Sherlock.When I've attempted to contradict these statements, I get met with blisteringly detailed logical attacks, which once mysteriously managed to link the colour of my shirt back to events in 1989 I'd completely forgotten about.

Most of the time I don't mind losing randomness: there's a certain intellectual pleasure in sensing the interconnection of everything, even if you can't understand the details. Unfortunately, however, a belief in chance would have been useful to wake up to on the day after I'd slept with a man for the first time. Because saying I'd had sex with Sherlock because he was being extremely annoying was a pretty feeble explanation. Especially when I wasn't gay.

Hadn't been gay. Hadn't thought I was gay. Hadn't realised the things I wanted to do with Sherlock, do _to_ him. Still, he could hardly complain about that. He'd obviously disentangled himself from my grip at some point in the night, and disappeared downstairs. I had a vague memory of him muttering something to me at some ridiculous time, but I couldn't remember what it was - it's hard enough for me to follow what Sherlock's saying when I'm awake. Nothing for it, I thought, but to go downstairs and talk to him.

I was a long time in the shower, as if I could somehow wash myself back to last night, stop what had happened. But at last I was clean and dressed and as prepared as I was going to get. As soon as I came down the stairs, I spotted Sherlock lying on the sofa, gazing intently at his laptop with his hands steepled, as if part of a particularly strange sect of icon-worshippers. The small bit of my brain that has detective pretensions deduced 'been there for hours, stumped by current problem'. The rest of me just concentrated on registering every inch of his body for more immediate purposes. And the thump of my heart as I remembered exactly what was on the laptop told me there was no point in apologising for what had happened. It's hypocritical to apologise for something you'd be quite prepared to do again.

So I walked up beside him, and said: "About last night..." and then ground to a halt completely. Eventually, I seemed to register with Sherlock, who looked up at me, smiled vaguely, said: "Last night, yes. It was...good, very good..we must do it again some time," and then returned to contemplating his laptop as if the matter was closed.

I stood there and concentrated very hard on my leg muscles, until I was sure my knees weren't going to buckle. And then I went into the kitchen and had some coffee, and went back up to my room. I spent about an hour trying to think up versions of the conversation – conversation? – in which I had a snappy reply to Sherlock. None of them were remotely convincing. Then I heard Sherlock bounding upstairs, and he burst into my room in a minor explosion of enthusiastic limbs.

"Suspected crocodile attack in Dagenham," he announced, "and London Zoo are sounding very twitchy. Let's go."

"Are you serious?"

"Teeth marks, prints. You can fake a lion's paw, but can you fake a crocodile's bite? If you're coming, come."

I stood up blearily. "Down in a minute," I said.

***

It wasn't quite as bad being with Sherlock as I'd expected. I got used to heroic levels of pretence in Afghanistan, the stubborn refusal to admit what was going to happen, what had happened. I've known a lot of live cowards who became dead heroes, and heard far too many speeches about how we were going to sort out Terry Taliban once and for all. Ignoring the existence of one bout of vigorous sex was relatively small stuff in comparison.

I was, of course, so tuned into Channel Sherlock that it was ridiculous. I was conscious of everything he did, every word, every gesture, everyone else seemed blurry in comparison. But was that really any change? Hadn't I always been obsessed with Sherlock, even before this? No-one seemed to notice anything different, though it was a bloody good job that no-one could see the scratches on my back, or test for DNA under my fingernails.

The real problem was when Sherlock disappeared, saying he had to see a man in Harlow about a caiman. He left me with a list of questions to go and ask the witnesses, and a state of total confusion. As I headed off to Becontree tube station, it felt like a bad dream, my tired legs too heavy to move. And then I realised I was looking at other men on the platform, _noticing_ them.

It's not the first time that Sherlock's actions have warped my perspectives substantially. That went right back to the first case I ever helped him with, the one I called the Study in Pink. (The details are on my blog, if you really want to know). After the deductions he made about Donovan and the Pink Lady, I found that for days afterwards I was looking at every woman I met and trying to work out if she was cheating on someone. And when Sherlock explained about what you could tell from a person's thumb, I wasn't able to shake someone's hand for a fortnight without trying to work out their profession from their hands, though my accuracy rate was about one in twenty.

But this was far worse. This was like suddenly realising that there was an extra colour, or that the world was 3D rather than flat. I kept on finding I was staring at some young man, wondering: _is he, would he, would he with me?_ The stupid thing was that I didn't actually want to have sex with any of them. At least I was almost sure I didn't. But then I'd see someone turn his head just like _that_ , so you could see the line of his bare neck, or a tall figure would stride past me, and my pulse would race and the constant ache in my stomach would spread to my whole body. Almost like a drug rush, though far less pleasant. (No, I haven't tried illegal drugs for many years, thank you very much. I can do enough damn fool things without getting high).

***

I tracked down and talked to all the people that Sherlock had asked me to, and then went home, and got yelled at for my incompetence in not having observed key details. Which was absolutely justified – my notes were a garbled mess – so I didn't even attempt to excuse myself. I just retorted with a few angry remarks when Sherlock promptly walked off with my phone and laptop yet again. Now he was in case mode, it wasn't worth asking what he was doing, let alone try to discuss anything else. I also knew that if I had to sit around just watching him for the rest of the day, it was going to screw up my nervous system even further. So I went upstairs and spent a long evening almost bouncing off the walls, and unsuccessfully trying to think of something that wasn't Sherlock's naked body.

I didn't have any locum work on that month – I'd probably have been a danger to my patients – so I had nothing to do that week but trail after Sherlock and his hypothetical crocodile. Unfortunately, he was having problems with the case, and started taking it out on me, saying I was being 'distracting'. (Sherlock can ignore pretty much anything short of hypothermia when things are going well. When things are going wrong, you can distract him by wearing a patterned shirt, or breathing the wrong way, let alone by walking around in a lust-crazed blur).

He went further than normal, though, and after a couple of days, told me not to come with him, that I wasn't helping his thought processes. It was typical of bloody Sherlock that he didn't mention _why_ I had become so incoherent and incompetent. His effect on me probably hadn't even registered with him. For a moment I wondered whether if we ever did have another close encounter, it might not be more satisfying just to beat him to a pulp, rather than have sex.

But instead, I found myself wandering around the streets of London on my own. Unfortunately they were still full of men flaunting themselves in ways that were really not helpful for someone trying not to think about gay sex. Who the hell had decided that September should be Slim Dark-Haired Men Dressing Stylishly Month?

When I thought I'd killed enough time, I went home. Except it wasn't home anymore, just a cage for two silent men. Sherlock was still wound up – the case going badly, I assumed – and now he was Not Talking to me, just like I was Not Talking to him. We were like the north poles of two magnets, automatically veering away whenever the other one came near. Except bloody magnets probably never wished they could reverse their own polarity, and Sherlock might be a magnet, but I was more like some hapless pile of iron filings. No, what Sherlock really was was a fucking catalyst, a not fucking catalyst, who could cause this explosive reaction in me and be completely unaffected himself. I had to get him out of my system somehow.

***

A night's reflection - well, more a night's frantic scrabbling round in my bed and what remained of my mind - convinced me that the best option was to find a woman to sleep with. That would prove that I was still the person I had been, that that part of me hadn't changed. But I couldn't think of anyone to ask, and I was conscious that 'I'd like to sleep with you so I don't obsess about my flatmate' was even worse than my normal chat-up lines. I even wondered about e-mailing Juanita, because she'd probably be quite happy to help me deal with my insecurities. Instead, I ended up doing something that was only marginally less insane. If I looked at pictures of girls, women, I could at least satisfy my own body, and then maybe I could get myself together again.

So I went off to see Shinwell Johnson, who's one of Sherlock's informers, and asked him if I could borrow his computer for some research. Shinwell's dark, beady eyes gleamed at that.

"Course, Dr Watson, whatever you need. And if you have to research some _unusual_ sites, that's fine by me. I'd just be grateful if you wipe down the keyboard afterwards."

There was nothing to be ashamed of, I told myself, even as I winced at Shinwell's smirk. Most men – most straight men - looked at porn. I didn't, though. I'd given it up after the disaster with Julie. If I was going to get myself under control the last thing I needed was anything giving me more ideas. It wasn't as if I needed any encouragement to think about sex.

But that was twenty years ago; I wasn't an adolescent anymore. I could do what I liked, enjoy myself. Except the stuff I found myself looking at, for hour after hour, wasn't...enjoyable, not like the slightly comic girls I remembered from twenty years ago. Too many of the videos didn't show the women properly, just thrusting genitals, which was about as arousing as watching a heart pump. And most of the girls you did get a decent look at had fake plastic bodies and even more fake smiles.

Then I found one that seemed more promising. No artificial tan this time: the woman's dark curls contrasted strikingly with her pale skin, oddly compelling. There was no smile on those beautiful lips, either – she just stood there, tall and slender and calm, as the camera ran up and down her. And then her partner stepped forward, and she stretched out her long, graceful arms, and he was putting handcuffs onto her wrists...

 _Christ, no!_ I clicked frantically on the back button, my heart pounding. I was not going to look at something like that, that was awful. And then my mind went abruptly back to _that_ night, and Sherlock smirking up at me from where he was sprawled on my bed. And my hands clamping round his bony wrists as I snarled at him: "We're not through with this yet."

Fuck, what the hell had happened to me? And why wasn't this working? Had the girl in the video just turned me on because she reminded me of Sherlock? But I liked brunettes, always had done. I pulled up some more clips, but I couldn't find anything that was _right_. I was second-guessing my own body, by now, even as I rubbed at my erection, trying to tell myself that I liked that, but not that. What I mainly felt was more and more disconnected. I didn't know any more whether it was all fine, or none of it was. Then I realised that I'd unthinkingly brought up my own blog site, and had to force myself not to type: 'Ever since I slept with Sherlock, I've become obsessed with sex.' At that point I left, because I was obviously in danger of losing control of my fingers, as well as the rest of my body

***

I was turning myself into a sweaty moral wreck, and it wasn't even making me feel better. I decided, when I got up the next day, that whatever Sherlock had done to me, I was not going to make things worse. So I spent most of the day not doing things. Successfully not talking to Sherlock and not going to Shinwell's. Unsuccessfully not thinking about Sherlock, or sex, or sex with Sherlock every 10 seconds. Almost automatically not eating or sleeping.

The problem was that some of the videos were still playing in front of my eyes, I couldn't get away from them. And now I'd seen them, thought about them, what might I end up doing? I couldn't trust myself anymore. Because there are times when you – I – do things that you know are stupid, wrong, even when you're doing them. Thump my little sister when Mum was watching. Bully a girl into kinky sex. Sleep with my flatmate, and then spend hours wanking over porn to try and forget him.

The sane part of me realised that this was going to end with somebody getting hurt or me being arrested. Or discovering that what I really subconsciously wanted was a threesome with Donovan and bloody Anderson. I had to get help, but not from Ella, of course. She'd want to discuss things, ask how I felt about it all. What I needed right now, though, was not non-directive counselling, but practical advice on what the hell to do next.

I wondered about going to see DI Lestrade, because he's one of the most sensible blokes I know, and pretty near unshockable. But the thing was, he wanted me to be a good influence on Sherlock, keep him on the straight and narrow. Hardly do to let him see how warped I was underneath. I needed someone who knew Sherlock, though, because it was only if you'd met him that you could understand the field of bizarreness he emanated, that made almost anything seem sensible at the time. I also decided I was more likely to get useful advice from a woman than a man. I knew a lot of clever, sensible women. Some of them I was still on speaking terms with. So I phoned up Clara and asked to come round to see her. Which just proved that my mind was no longer functioning on any level.

***

I think I've mentioned Clara before, but I didn't explain who she is, which is Harry's ex. As in the ex-civil partner of my sister Harriet, whom I have never got on with. Harry's had a nasty tongue on her almost since she learned to talk, always known how to hurt people with it. She was always hurting me in other ways as well, when we were kids. Sly pokes, and pulling my hair, and accidentally on purpose kicking me, till I lost it and walloped her. And then I'd get into trouble with my parents, because you must never, ever hit a girl. Which I know is right, but seems a bit odd when you're training in the same army regiment as them. Harry gave me hell, of course, for joining the army, but I was used to her disapproving of anything I did.

Given we don't get on, it's pretty ironic that she's the only member of my family I'm still in contact with. It soon became clear after Harry came out at university that everyone in our family was going to have pick sides: for Harry or against her. I picked Harry's side on principle and I don't think she's ever quite forgiven me for that. It spoiled her lovely clear-cut story about how horribly her bigoted family had treated her. So I got ostracised by the rest of my family, and turned into a whipping boy by Harry. Not one of my cleverer moves.

It hasn't all been bad with Harry, and it was a lot better when she got together with Clara, who is a really nice woman. I was quite envious that Harry had found someone like her, after all the dodgy girlfriends she'd hopped into bed with. And then, of course, Harry went and blew it: started drinking heavily, and then ran out on Clara. I am - amazingly enough - not the biggest relationship disaster in the Watson family. At least this time, Harry had the sense not to insist that I had to choose whether to stay friends with Clara or her. Maybe she'd guessed that I might have chosen Clara.

***

The problem, I realised, once I'd made the call and my brain had finally caught up, was that Clara was absolutely not the right person to talk to about this. Not so much because she doesn't get on well with Sherlock – hardly anyone does. But because she would probably say I ought to be OK with being attracted to men, and I wasn't in a fit state to argue with her. I picked up my phone again, and rang her to cancel.

"Sorry about messing you around," I said. "It's just this case has come up and I can't make it, and I'm really sorry-"

"John, do you realise how rotten a liar you are?" Clara replied crisply. "There's obviously something wrong. What is it?"

"There's nothing, everything's fine." Even I could hear I was sounding pathetically unconvincing.

"Then you either turn up at my flat tonight as we agreed, or I'll have to come round to Baker Street to sort you out, because you're sounding in a really bad state."

"I-"

"Stop arguing, John. I'll be expecting you at eight."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is about to discuss his sex life with Clara. Choose Your Own Disaster Time awaits...

I thought I was looking reasonably presentable when I got round to Clara's, but she took one look at me, and almost bundled me into the flat, as if I was about to collapse on her doorstep. As usual, she looked lovely. She's got a very unobtrusive charm. Short brown hair, smartly but plainly dressed, nothing that stands out, except that she's got the kind of face that you know will still be beautiful in fifty years time.

"Do you want a drink?" she asked.

"Got any juice?" I asked.

"Apple juice OK?" Clara asked. "Or I might have some...no, I have a nasty feeling I'm pretty low on everything." She handed me the drink and went on: "And I'm sorry, I didn't say anything about food, did I? You have eaten, I presume?"

"I, er, possibly not," I said, trying to focus. "I had something at lunchtime." Because what better way was there to get myself back into gear than not bothering to eat or sleep properly? Medical genius, that was me.

"Don't tell me you're on a Sherlock diet now," Clara replied, and added. "I could do you a sandwich, maybe?"

"That would be great," I said. I went into the lounge, and when Clara presented me with a rather chunky and haphazard cheese sandwich, tried not to wolf it down, or drop too many crumbs on the sofa.

"So what is it you're worried about, John?" Clara asked, sitting down opposite me. "It's not Harry, is it?"

"No, it's me."

"If it's anything financial, you know I don't feel I should advise you," she said cautiously. Clara is a research analyst who specialises in the luxury goods market. I have had the details of this explained to me several times, but it never sticks properly in my mind. All I know is that she makes lots of money (which came in useful, given Harry's distaste for paid employment), and that she has a mind like a steel trap. Which might make up for the fact that I wasn't able to think straight anymore.

"It's not about money," I said, "It's my, I wanted, I...I'm worried I'm gay."

She sat up at that, and looked at me thoughtfully, and then asked: "What are the symptoms?"

"Excuse me?"

"John, if I came into your surgery and said 'I'm worried I've got diabetes', you'd ask me why I thought that. So, tell me your data."

"I...slept with Sherlock just over a week ago."

"OK. And you'd like to do it again?"

"Yes."

"That does strongly suggest you're attracted to men, or one man at least. So, if you really need the label, then you're gay or bisexual. The thing is," she added, "are you trying to come out of the closet or get back in it?"

"I don't understand." Whatever had happened seemed to have eaten my brain as well.

"You said you're worried you're gay," Clara said patiently. "Do you just mean it's all still very strange, or that you don't want to be gay and you're trying to run away from it?"

"No point," I said. "It's there, I can't stop it. It's terrifying." Shit, I thought, why do I always open my big mouth and put my foot in it? I was supposed to be fine about this, wasn't I? Always said I was.

"Why terrifying?" asked Clara, which was exactly the kind of question that Ella would ask. Unfortunately, I couldn't face lying to Clara.

"Because it's not just Sherlock. There was this young guy walking along Baker Street when I was coming here, and he had a nice arse. I _realised_ he had a nice arse. And my heart started pounding, and..." _And I thought about fucking him, because maybe then all this would stop, my body would just switch off wanting, wanting..._

"Before you slept with Sherlock, did you ever look at women and feel like that?"

I didn't say anything. I didn't need to. John Watson, sex-crazed male. Hypocritical sex-crazed male. I just wished I could explain that it wasn't that I wanted. Not just that I wanted, but something more, someone who would stay. But right now, what I wanted more than anything was for the whole thing just to stop, the pain to end.

"John, are you OK?" Clara said. "You look absolutely terrible."

Clara looked warm and sane and normal, and if I could just hold onto the thought of her, maybe I could keep things together. Her mouth had pale pink lipstick on; I could barely see it, but it gave a faint gleam to her lips, and I was sure they would be gentle and calm on my skin, not like Sherlock's insanely mobile mouth... _and I was now fantasising about Clara, God help me_. And she was standing up, and coming towards me, and the conflicting urges in me to grab her or run away suddenly resolved themselves into a wave of nausea. I stumbled up, staggered out into Clara's bathroom, and threw up the cheese sandwich in the toilet.

"Are you OK?" Clara said, coming into the bathroom, reaching out to help me up.

"Don't touch me!" I yelled. "Please, don't! I'm fine, just leave me alone."

Clara retreated to the doorway and said, in the careful voice of someone addressing the possibly deranged : "John, I think you should sit down, because you look very wobbly. Aren't you supposed to put your head between your legs or something?"

I slumped onto the toilet lid, head in my hands, so I didn't have to look at her.

"I'm sorry...I shouldn't have come," I muttered, but when I stood up to go I was shaking. I thought for a moment I really was going to pass out, things were going in and out of focus.

"Sit down!" Clara said, and my legs seemed to fold at her command. "Are you ill? Do you need a doctor?"

"No, it's not that," I managed to say. I tried to think of some excuse for my behaviour, but everything was starting to unravel, and I didn't have the words.

"So what is it? You're obviously very upset at what you're feeling at the moment."

"I'm just having a rough patch. I said I shouldn't have come."

"You're here and you're staying here," Clara said, with absolute conviction, as if I'd now acquired her for a guardian angel. "I know how hard this is, and you need someone to talk to. Or maybe if you can't talk about it, I should, because I've been through this too."

"You can't possibly have got into the mess I have."

"The hardest bit of coming out," she said calmly, "sometimes isn't coming out to other people, but to yourself. When you realise you're not the person you thought you were. Does that sound familiar?"

I nodded.

"For me, it was mostly positive...it was as if I'd been living in a foreign country all my life, and suddenly I went somewhere where I spoke the language. I found myself when I realised I was gay. But I know Harry had a difficult time, with your family being so uptight about sex."

"Yeah, well I don't have a problem with sex...or gay sex," I protested, glaring at the floor. "Do you want me to prove it, tell you exactly what I did with Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry," Clara said. "Is there anything I can say that will help, that won't be wrong?"

Oh fuck, now I was taking it out on Clara. I knew I shouldn't have come.

"No, it's my fault," I said hastily. "It's just...you said you found yourself. I've lost myself and I'm scared of the man I am now. I'm scared what I might do."

If I was trying to reassure Clara, I was doing an absolutely shitty job. I could hear the fear in her voice now.

"John...you mustn't! You can't be thinking of suicide because of this? Please, please, don't tell me that."

"God, no! Of course not."

"You promise me you're not going to do anything to yourself?"

How could she get it so wrong? Not see what was there in me, had always been.

"I'm not a danger to myself," I said. "But I'm scared I might hurt somebody."

"That's insane. Why on earth would you think that?"

"Things got...out of hand with Sherlock. I didn't care if I hurt him. I still think about hitting him sometimes."

"I once seriously contemplated stabbing Sherlock," Clara said abruptly. I looked up then, just to check that she hadn't been replaced by a Clara-shaped alien. Her hazel eyes met mine: sane, intelligent. I must have misheard.

"Do you remember the time Harry and you and I met at that Belgian cafe and tried to sort out the divorce paperwork?" she added.

I mostly try and forget about that night. Harry dragged me along because she didn't trust Clara, and then decided she didn't trust me either. Then Sherlock turned up on some feeble excuse, and Harry stormed off.

"Sherlock said something awful, didn't he, after she'd gone?" It was the sharp pulse of horror I remembered, not the detail; I try quite hard to erase some of Sherlock's worst behaviour from my memory.

Clara's voice was flat as she replied: "He told me to bear in mind, when I was working out the financial settlement, that Harry would probably be dead within five years."

It's the starkness of Sherlock's truth-telling that shocks people, that still shocks me sometimes, hearing the things you've hidden from yourself. That Harry's drinking is killing her. That I was attracted to him. Clara was looking at me patiently.

"You'd never do anything like that to Sherlock, Clara, I know you wouldn't, it's not in you," I said at last. "But I lost control and it didn't bother me." It's the central paradox you learn in the army: you must always be prepared to fight, without coming to enjoy it.

"I'm sure if things did get rough, he gave as good as he got," Clara said. "So did you both end up in casualty?" She said it half-jokingly, but only half.

"God, no! What do you take me for? I'm not like that." Except maybe I was. I didn't know any more. I slumped back down, and in the silence that followed, I could _hear_ Clara thinking. Well, at least there weren't any thoughts of mine that were going to disrupt hers, other than an overwhelming wish that I could wake up and find I'd only dreamt being John Watson.

"What did you do to Sherlock then?" Clara said, at last, very carefully.

"Not that much. Scratches, bruises. But I don't do that sort of thing. With a woman, I mean. Wouldn't be...good." And then I remembered the really painful bit. "Oh, and Sherlock bit my hand."

"Because you were trying to shut him up?"

"How did you guess?"

"Stopping Sherlock talking sounds like a very good move. You can get gags, you know."

Great, I thought. I was now the sort of man that people recommend buying gags to.

"Whips as well?" I asked. "Should I be installing a dungeon in 221C?"

"John, I didn't mean it like that," Clara protested. "I don't think that you've become some kind of depraved pervert just because you've had rough sex with Sherlock, even if it has freaked you out. As long as he's happy with it."

"I don't know if he is."

"Do you think if Sherlock was unhappy you wouldn't know about it? Can you imagine _him_ suffering in silence?"

"It may have been OK at the time, but I'm not sure what he felt afterwards."

"But presumably the next time-"

"There hasn't been a next time. He...we're pretending it didn't happen."

"He's a sod, he really is!" I risked another look at her, and she was practically bouncing up and down with frustration, which was not like her at all. "It was his idea, wasn't it, that you slept together? He talks you into something that you're obviously not comfortable with, and then dumps you."

"It wasn't like that," I said. I wished I could explain, but that would have required me understanding it in the first place. "Yes, it was his idea, but it was my choice to sleep with him. So it's not his fault."

"It's always his fault. Messing with people's minds is his default mode. You know, John, being gay, or bi, or straight, that's normal, nothing to worry about. But sleeping with Sherlock, that really is a bit strange."

I was not going to lose it any further and yell at Clara. I closed my eyes again. I was going to sit here, I was going to breathe. I could manage that, if I concentrated really hard.

"I'm sorry," Clara said into the silence. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm hardly one to talk about poor choices, am I? But surely feeling things for Sherlock is bad news? " She paused, and then added: "It is him that you really want, isn't it? Not other men."

"It's him," I croaked.

"In that case," said Clara firmly, "you've either got to get together with him or get over him. Because if you're just sitting around being frustrated, you're going to do something stupid..." Her voice tailed off, and I could tell she was deducing things. Why the bloody hell can _everybody_ read me like a book?

"You've done something stupid already, haven't you?" she went on, "I mean more than just over-enthusiastic sex with Sherlock."

"You can tell it from the way I button up my shirt, or my left thumb?"

"I can guess it because it's human nature to do stupid things when your love life is a mess. After one break-up, I got my lip pierced."

"I can't imagine that."

"I wanted to prove that I wasn't just boring and conventional. And it hurt like anything, and it didn't make me look sexy, it made me look like I had a sparkly wart. So what have you done?"

"Looked at men in the street."

"If you didn't get arrested or attacked, it can't have been that stupid. Is that all?"

"Spent hours looking at porn."

"That's really not going to help, John. It's no wonder you're getting freaked out about being gay."

If I said something now, maybe I could convince Clara that was what was wrong, stop her working out anything more. But I couldn't get my brain in gear enough to lie. And she was a clever woman - why did I only ever fall for clever women?

"No, it's not that, is it? You've been looking at straight porn," Clara went on, and I could hear the edge in her voice now. "Trying to persuade yourself you're not really gay, you still get turned on by women."

"And so what if I did?" I yelled, through the mounting pressure in my skull. "I thought you were complaining I was repressed! I looked at porn, lots of men do."

"And it's still not a good idea."

"Don't give me that crap, Clara," I said, and suddenly I didn't care what I said, because it hurt too much. "I've had too many bloody lectures from Harry about how all men are disgusting, and sex-crazed, and vile."

"I've had that sort of stuff from her as well," Clara said, "When she found _me_ watching porn-" Her voice stopped abruptly. I concentrated extremely hard on not looking at her, and not thinking about the combination of Clara and porn. Unfortunately, whatever I was trying to think about, my nervous system had different ideas. Despite everything, I could feel my body responding to the thought, blood pumping into my growing erection. And closing my eyes didn't help, because there were images on the inside of my eyelids that I shouldn't be seeing. I opened them again. Focus on the subtle pattern of the lino, not on the thought of the soft, rippling cream fabric of Clara's blouse, the pink of her lipstick...

"Clara," I said, "Maybe we could-" I realised I was staring up at her, and that she looked as if she'd just realised there was an IED six inches away from her. I ground to a halt, because whatever it was she wanted, it definitely wasn't me. At least I should try not to make things worse.

"It doesn't matter what Harry says," I said loudly. "She's a bigger sod than Sherlock."

"I know," Clara said in a very quiet voice. "But the porn isn't going to help you forget Sherlock, is it? When you...want somebody, it's them you want. You might be able to distract yourself for a bit, but anyone else, they're just a substitute, aren't they?"

I saw the not-really-a -smile twisting her beautiful mouth, and remembered the phone in my pocket, with her kisses for Harry engraved on it.

"Maybe," I managed to get out, "we should just leave things for now."

"That would be...sensible," Clara said firmly. "Look, I've got a spare bedroom, you're welcome to stay here for tonight, because you're probably exhausted. If I go and get that ready, do you want to have a shower, get yourself cleaned up, sorted out?"

"OK," I said. Clara turned to go, and then swung round abruptly, and said:

"And, um, it might, you might find it easier to sleep if you relieved yourself. A bit of...thinking about Sherlock in the shower."

I made some vague gurgling response.

"It's just that you're very tense," she went on, "and it's unsettling. And...and I have done a lot of stupid things, but sleeping with Harry's brother because we're both unhappy would be near the top of the stupid list. So I'll go and get the spare bedroom sorted out, and you think about Sherlock, and not any kind of substitute, OK?" She disappeared.

I'd been trying not to fantasize about Sherlock, because I knew it would just make things worse in the long run, stoke the desire that was burning me up already. But once I'd cleaned up the mess in the bathroom, rinsed the taste of vomit and self-loathing out of my mouth, and got in the shower, I held my revived erection and let myself remember his body, as I'd seen it that night. The feel of Sherlock beneath my nails, against my body, in my mouth. I came rapidly, and it helped a bit, some of the pain in my head dissipating at least, my mind stilled. Then I went and lay down in Clara's nice quiet, clean, tastefully decorated spare bedroom. The last thing I remembered thinking about was Sherlock's feet, so alarmingly prehensile that he could probably play the violin with them. And then, unexpectedly, I must have fallen asleep


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is still attempting to get himself straightened out about the fact that he's gay. Good job Clara's around to help.

It was yet another morning when I woke up and couldn't understand why I'd behaved as I had the previous night. I was having too many of those kind of days. So, yesterday...I came round to Clara's, threw up, nearly had a nervous breakdown, accidentally revealed I fancied her, and then masturbated in her bathroom. God, I was behaving like a bloody teenager, wasn't I? OK, I thought, it might be tempting to spend the rest of my life under the duvet, but I had better brace myself, and go and apologise to Clara for everything.

It was at that point that it finally registered with me that it was quiet. Too quiet. When I looked at my watch I realised it was past eight; I must have slept for ten hours or more. I groaned, got dressed rapidly, and went into the kitchen to find no Clara, just a note.

 _Dear John,_

 _I think you need today off - you must be worn out, and you ought to try and unwind. So I've phoned the surgery, and checked you're not needed, and texted Sherlock that you've eloped with me. Spare keys to the flat are by the door, use anything you need in the flat (food, toiletries, etc). I'll try and get back about 7.30 pm, we can talk then. If you're up to cooking this evening, you might get a better meal than if I do it! Or we can get a takeaway. Take care and best wishes,_

 _Clara._

There is a reason I always fall for practical women; they're so much easier being around. I smiled for the first time in about a week, and went to have a shower, and see if I could find a razor.

***

A hot shower, followed by some of the rehab exercises I didn't do as often as I should, helped with the muscle aches from all last night's shaking. And I was also pleased with myself for managing a decent breakfast, though it needed a bit of ingenuity given how bare Clara's cupboards were. Right, this afternoon's project was restocking her food supplies, and cooking her something good. This morning, though, I was still too wiped out to try anything much. It was odd how calm I felt now, as if all my emotions had just burned themselves out last night. Tomorrow I'd have to leave this nice bubble, go back to the battlefront, but tomorrow could wait. Today was rest and recreation.

I watched a bit of daytime television after breakfast, but it wasn't the same without Mrs Hudson to discuss it with, and the radio either had bad pop music, stupid phone-ins, or earnest discussions of fiscal policy. Or violin pieces, at least one of which I vaguely recognised. I hastily switched that off, and went to browse through Clara's bookcases.

Clara's taste in fiction was a long way from mine, all either highbrow or achingly contemporary; she probably had to know what fashionable people read. But at last I found something that looked slightly more promising, a book called _The Night Watch_ about a group of women in post-war London. I recognised something familiar when I started reading it, the feeling that everything in civilian life was somehow flattened out, meaningless. That even though war was terrible, it brought a purpose, enabled you to become the person you really should be, alive, competent, able to save others. It didn't seem to matter that a lot of the characters were lesbians: of course when the bombs might fall on you the next day, and your world could explode in fragments, what you wanted was someone to connect to, hold onto, love, and the rules of ordinary life didn't count anymore. Well, some of them. There was a bit where one woman almost died after an illegal abortion that had my skin crawling: thank God doctors didn't have to pick up the aftermath of those anymore.

I realised abruptly that I had better stop reading about bombs and rubble, or I'd start triggering my nightmares again. Besides, the book was going to end badly, had already ended badly, because it was written backwards. You knew how lost the characters were, how they couldn't escape. Especially the poor sodding gay brother...

At least I wasn't back in 1947, I thought. If I wanted to go out and pick up a man, I wouldn't get arrested. Well, not for that, at least. It still didn't make it sensible to do. I'd learnt how to behave dating women: what was OK, what was safe. I wasn't sure yet if the same rules worked for sex with men. And getting involved with anyone at the moment would be stupid; Clara was right about that. Obviously stupid, when I was so obsessed with Sherlock. Well, obvious except to the voice that was sometimes in my head, the one saying: _Why not smash this up, why not go up to that big red shiny button that says 'DON'T PUSH' and push it anyhow? Because chaos is better than sticking to the rules, and destruction is exciting!_

I wasn't going to go there. I'd learned not to go there, and I decided that not even Sherlock was going to change that. I'd got through medical school and Afghanistan, I'd even survived being a civilian. I was not going to blow up my own life if I could possibly avoid it. I was going to do the right thing. If I could just work out what it was.

***

I didn't look at my texts until after lunchtime. That was part of getting back into control, not facing things till I was ready for them. Only two texts from Sherlock, but I knew then that he was affected by all of this too. The first text was standard Sherlock indifference, or pretend indifference – it was hard to tell in a text:

 _When you come back to the flat, bring some biscuits, we're out. SH_

But the second one, a minute later, made it clear:

 _Not ginger biscuits, I don't like them. SH_

I knew Sherlock didn't like ginger biscuits, and he knew I knew. And that I didn't buy food Sherlock didn't like, because he needed no encouragement to starve himself. _Bit of grit in your hard drive at the moment, Sherlock, isn't there?_

But that doesn't solve my problem. I could go back to Baker Street immediately and make something happen. An argument, a fight, sex, some bizarre combination of the three. I'd never do that with a woman, of course, but I had a lot fewer scruples where Sherlock was concerned. I could probably make him respond physically if I pushed him hard enough, the way he'd done with me.

And look where that had got us. What the hell did you do after the adrenaline wore off? If being around Sherlock and not being able to sleep with him was bad, being around him and being unable to talk to him was worse. But every time I tried to imagine a conversation with Sherlock, it seemed more implausible. I decided I was better off for now concentrating on the things I could work out. Food for this evening. Getting my clothes clean and dried, so even if I was still an emotional mess, at least I wasn't a sweaty, vomit-stained emotional mess. And making sure I didn't do anything that I might regret later.

***

"This is really good," said Clara, as she worked her way through the steaming plateful in front of her. "I didn't know stew could be so nice. Well, I suppose it's not stew, it's something fancier, isn't it?"

"Irish stew, like my mother used to make. Well, probably not quite like this. I had to get the recipe off the internet, so it's how someone's granny in New Jersey used to make it."

"Must have taken ages," Clara smiled at me in a way that suggested she'd forgiven me for yesterday.

"Doesn't take much preparation, just time to cook, which I don't usually have. But as comfort food, it's pretty good."

"It's not fair. Why did _you_ inherit your mother's ability to cook and not Harry?"

"I'm not that good, but I think the reason I'm better than Harry is that I _like_ food. You get a bit obsessed with it in the army, there are times when it's the one good bit of your day. You're sitting around waiting, or doing something tedious, and you think, this evening at camp, it may be hot and dusty and thousands of miles from home, but at least I've still got a nice bit of fruit cake to eat."

I added, as Clara's lips curled, "I know. It sounds pathetic."

"No, rather sweet, really," said Clara. "I never thought of soldiers, of you, sitting around dreaming of fruit cake."

"Contrary to popular belief, I don't just have a one-track mind."

"I know," said Clara, "and you're looking an awful lot better today. And...if you do want to stay here for longer, you'd always be welcome, especially if you can cook like this."

"I'm your ex-brother-in-law, Clara, not your housekeeper. Oh, never mind. It's been good, but I can't run away from things forever."

"To be honest," said Clara, "it affects my work if I have too many emotional problems to deal with. I'm sure I made several poor recommendations today. You and Harry between you will have me bring down capitalism yet. We need to sort something out. That is if you'd like my help."

"Yes," I said, "because I still don't know what to do."

"OK," Clara said, and there was a tiny focusing of her gaze, a creasing of her brow, that meant that I had now become a problem to be solved. "But I need some more data. I mean you, I can model, work out, you're relatively ordinary."

"Thank you."

"I don't mean it like that. Your behaviour makes sense. You've been flailing around a bit, but you're not going to pretend anymore, are you? You want Sherlock, and you're not going to be put off just because...people are going to think it's strange or warped, are you?"

"Most people think I'm pretty strange or warped anyhow, being friends with Sherlock."

"As I said," said Clara, smiling at me, "you're straightforward, which is good. But Sherlock's a bigger problem. I don't understand him, but I suppose I'm going to have to try. So tell me how he came on to you, and that might give me a clue."

"It started with Juanita Brown," I said, "who's a con woman we're involved with."

"You and Sherlock are both involved with the same woman?" said Clara, and I could hear alarm creeping into her voice.

"I... we...I am dating her with Sherlock's help. It's for a case. She's almost certainly a blackmailer, and Sherlock has a thing about blackmailers."

"As in he gets turned on by them?" Clara said, putting down her fork, and staring at me.

"No, he really, really dislikes them. Calls them worse than murderers, the way they torture their victims for months, years even, just for money."

"That's almost caring of Sherlock," she commented with surprise. I glared at her. "OK, I'm sorry I said that. I still think he's a manipulative sod, but he's your manipulative sod, and you can't do anything till you've got him out of your system, and then you can move on and find yourself someone worthwhile."

I said nothing, just kept on eating my stew.

"Or maybe not," Clara added. "Look, it's probably best if I just shut up and you tell me about this woman, right from the start."

***

I tried to tell it as I would in a blog post, though this was one post that I was pretty certain I wasn't going to be writing. Sticking to the facts, not the emotions. Clara listened silently, almost forgetting to eat, and once again I had the sense of her mind working, looking for patterns.

"And that was how we ended up in bed," I said at last. "And the rest you got some idea of last night. I'm sorry about that, I...I'd just lost it for a bit. I-"

"It's OK," said Clara. "Last night...I think we possibly don't dwell on that. That reminds me. You said that Sherlock has been pretending that you ending up in bed together didn't happen?"

"He told me the next morning it had been good, and we should do it again some other time and then changed the subject."

Clara just looked at me at that point, for a very long time. She was probably thinking that I was an idiot. Even I sometimes think I'm an idiot for getting involved with Sherlock. But then he can be an idiot as well. Twin idiot souls.

"OK," said Clara, who had obviously decided that at least I should be an idiot with an action plan. "The first part more or less makes sense. Sherlock did a very good job of marketing himself to you."

"What do you mean?"

"He sold the idea of a relationship with him to you. Some clever tricks. First of all, he got you to feel you needed someone. All that writing to Juanita, it was a bit...odd, wasn't it?"

"Yes," I admitted. "I didn't want to say anything, but it was winding me up. I...there was this new John Watson, who was me, but not me, and he, I was this sad loser, who desperately needed someone, anyone."

"One of the best copywriting tricks is not to write your copy, but get your audience to write it for you. You made yourself someone ready to be exploited. Or rather, Sherlock made you into that."

"Juanita's stuff worried me even more. I'd skim through it and she'd seem really caring, and then I'd read it properly and see the traps."

"And meanwhile," said Clara, "Sherlock was still working on you. He'd got you telling yourself you wanted someone, and then he primed you with a whole load of photos, made you used to the idea of looking at him in that way. But all plausibly deniable, of course. And then the explicit pictures, and suddenly that's what you want, he's what you want. As I said, very clever marketing." She smiled sympathetically at me, and suddenly I knew she was wrong. It was a good theory, but it didn't quite fit the evidence.

"It wasn't like that," I burst out. I closed my eyes for a moment, to see the scenes again, and then I knew.

"Sherlock asked me, when I was going to look through the photos, to find one where he looked vulnerable," I said. "He doesn't like showing that side of himself, but I saw pictures that made him look ill, tired, ridiculous, even."

"Trying to get your sympathy?" Clara suggested, but I could tell her heart wasn't in. That she was starting to realise there was something more complex here.

"Sherlock asking for sympathy? And I know you think he's manipulative and he is, but only in the short term. He can't sustain manipulating people, because he's naturally very honest, too honest for his own good. He says the things you're not supposed to say, what you really think."

I stopped at that point, while Clara quickly and silently cleared the plates away. "Sorry, there's no pudding," I said.

"I'm very grateful for this," said Clara, "It was probably unfair of me to ask you to cook, but I'm glad I did. Coffee?"

"Please."

I didn't go into the lounge, and she didn't suggest it. This was a business meeting now, a consultation. I half expected Clara to get out her BlackBerry and start making notes. But instead she just sat back down with our mugs at the kitchen table, and said:

"Why does a honest man do the things he did?"

"The e-mails and the first set of photos weren't directed against me. He was thinking about the case, and he has tunnel vision then, can't see any possible fallout."

"Are you trying to tell me that there's any reasonable excuse for the explicit photos?" Clara asked.

"When Sherlock was six he ate a banana skin, because nobody told him a good reason why he shouldn't. He said it was the fifth worst thing he'd tasted till that point, but he still finished it off. When he was ten he found an old book on his father's shelves about guerrilla warfare. His car trap only failed because he didn't know that modern tyres are a lot wider than in 1941."

"He's insane and he always has been?" said Clara.

"He loves experiments, and he's impulsive. He had a hypothesis about me, and he saw a chance to check if it was right."

"He got you to admit you were turned on by him just as an experiment?"

"Yes. But when he found out, he didn't back down. Even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't get a six foot bloke who knows martial arts into my bed without him cooperating."

Clara was looking at me with an expression that said she wasn't quite sure how to deal with this John Watson. Which was a shame, because this John Watson was the one who knew what to do in weird and possibly dangerous situations, and it was an awful lot better being him again.

"He knew what he was doing," I said, "I suspect he'd been with men before, and I think he was enjoying himself. And then the next day, he was backing off. And yes, that is odd, isn't it, even for Sherlock?"

"Why would someone do that?" said Clara. "Because they were disappointed by the sex, or it _had_ just been an experiment?"

"He'd have told me, " I said. "He's very honest really."

Clara pulled a face. "There's such a thing as too honest." Then she added: "If it was anyone but Sherlock, I'd say he was confused. That he wasn't sure if he wanted a relationship."

"Ginger biscuits," I said, and got a look from Clara that said she was reconsidering my sanity. "I mean, that would make sense. He's not very good with feelings." Sherlock had been behaving strangely right from that first morning, hadn't he, I suddenly remembered. Perhaps it hadn't just been the crocodile bothering him.

"Sherlock's not very good with _people_ ," Clara said. "Well, live people."

"I'm used to him. Mostly."

"So you need to talk to him."

"Um, no," I said. "It wouldn't work. We don't talk to one another about things like that."

"You maintain your friendship entirely by sign language?"

"We end up making a few jokes and changing the subject. It's easier," I said. I'd risked my life for him when I'd grabbed Moriarty, and afterwards he'd said it was 'good', and I'd said something equally stupid. Mainly because he was still waving my loaded gun around, and I didn't want him freaking out even more.

"Bloody men!" Clara burst out. "You have the entire riches of the English language, and all you can talk about is football or severed heads."

"And women bitch and gossip all the time. Can we stop the stereotypes? Sherlock has to work out for himself what he wants, because if I try and confront him he'll panic."

"He panics as well?" Clara asked. I supposed I could hardly blame her, after last night.

"Yes, just in different ways from me. We're not wired right, I guess. We first bonded over a complete inability to behave correctly at a crime scene."

"Maybe you should be with Sherlock," said Clara. "I thought...but you're so _nice_ , John."

"That's just a veneer," I said. "Underneath I'm barking mad, and Sherlock spotted it. He knows what I feel, so I just have to persuade him that I'm what he wants. Any ideas for marketing me, Clara?"

"Consumer resistance," Clara replied, almost automatically. "He wants you, but he's still reluctant to make a commitment."

"So what's my strategy then?"

"John, this is weird."

"I know," I said. "But...things can't be normal round Sherlock, he doesn't allow it. So weird suggestions would be helpful, because I'm not good at thinking of them. How do you persuade people to choose something, someone?"

"Branding?" said Clara. I started giggling. "No, I shouldn't have said that, stop it, John! Sherlock really has done something to you, hasn't he?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "But now I'm finally doing something, not just feeling sorry for myself, it helps. OK, what else is there?"

"Stealth marketing. Someone else praises you, generates a buzz, and then Sherlock realises how much he wants you."

"Sherlock doesn't care what other people think," I pointed out. "But there's something there. He needs to be reminded that he enjoyed himself. And then...you give Sherlock an inch, he'll take a mile. You give Sherlock a mile, he'll take whatever he wants."

"John, you're not planning anything stupid, are you?" said Clara. "Getting yourself hurt?"

"It's not stupid," I said, "at least, I hope not. I'm offering him the chance to have sex with me again. Only indirectly."

"I don't know what indirect sex means," said Clara, "but it doesn't sound advisable."

"I meant an indirect invitation. Sherlock and I had a discussion once about how you got someone to open a door with a hungry lion behind it, and if it was OK to do so."

"Do I want to know why?" said Clara. She had a look now that said: _My business meetings aren't like this._

"It was a hypothetical lion. I can't remember now exactly what it symbolised. And Sherlock said that with some people, you just made it look like an ordinary door, and I said that was unethical. So he said, what if you put a big red sign on the door, saying 'Do not open'? And I wasn't sure about that, because psychologically, that's still an invitation. So then we thought, what if you put a sign saying 'Beware of the lion'? And I thought that was OK, but Sherlock pointed out that then you'd catch all the smart-arses who think it's a bluff."

"So when is it OK to have your lion eat someone?" said Clara with resignation.

"If you've put a sign on the door saying 'Beware of the lion', and you've put bolts and bars on the door, so it's completely clear that there really is a lion there. Because the person who opens that door wants to meet a hungry lion."

"OK," said Clara. "So Sherlock is the lion, and you want to open the bolted door, which is an entirely rational, and absolutely not stupid and dangerous thing to do."

"No," I said, "I'm the lion this time. I'm going to leave some bait for Sherlock and see if he takes it."

"That still sounds very risky."

"Yes, but I know the risks now. Clara, do you have a camera I could borrow?"

Of course. I've got a rather fancy one, in fact. Someone at the office upgraded theirs and offered me their old-" She suddenly stopped, and then said abruptly: "Please don't do anything that freaks you out again. Like...amateur porn."

"It's OK," I said, "nothing for public consumption, and I swear I will delete them all off your camera once I'm done. "

"John, please be sensible."

"Sensible is no use with Sherlock."

"Are you sure you have to have him? There are other men, other women, you don't have to drive yourself crazy for his sake. He's really not good for you," Clara protested.

"I'm good for him, and he...he's given me a purpose in life," I said, but when Clara looked at me, I knew she was seeing herself and Harry. And I couldn't explain without telling Clara things about me that she really, really wouldn't want to know.

"It'll be OK," I said. "Do you think you could show me how your camera works? I probably ought to get a move on, if I'm going to do this tonight."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara may think John's an idiot for falling for Sherlock, but at least he's now an idiot with an action plan.

"You will be pleased to hear, John, that Juanita Brown is now in police custody, and is about to be charged with extortion," Sherlock announced, as he burst into the flat a few evenings later, and started taking off his coat and scarf. A broad smile ran across his face, as did a mass of peculiarly reddened, puckered skin.

"What have you done to your face?" I demanded, with sudden alarm, "it looks-"

"Scarred? John Watson, Juanita's John Watson, had some serious facial burns, as you remember. A very helpful student at Central St Martin's did this, though she was a bit disappointed she couldn't turn me into a zombie."

"And you can get it off again?"

"Relatively easily. And I've now got a lot of data about public reaction to facial deformity. You were lucky just having your shoulder damaged, you realise that?"

"I know," I said. I wasn't sure whether I should be worried or not that I was still turned on by Sherlock, even with him looking like that. The voice, the eyes, the way he held himself, it was still him, underneath that plastic mask. I tried to concentrate, show the right kind of friendly interest: 'So, Juanita Brown, the con artist, blackmailer. She'll be behind bars for a while, will she?"

"Now they've got one charge they know will stand up, the police have got an excuse to search her files. They'll probably be able to get her on tax evasion, if nothing else."

"Good, that's good. Sorry, I haven't been much help on the case. Got distracted, wasn't myself." I was babbling already. Not a good start.

"That's all right," said Sherlock. "You did the initial contact, which was the most important part. I need to go and remove this stuff."

From the cursing coming from the bathroom soon afterwards, I gathered it wasn't that simple a process, and Sherlock's face was slightly flushed and reddened when he re-emerged. He stalked across the room, and abruptly swooped on the leather bag he'd been carrying earlier.

"Thanks for the loan of your laptop, by the way," he said, pulling it out of the bag.

I sat back on the sofa, suddenly calm. So the bait had been taken, had it?

"I don't remember lending it to you," I said, with a smile.

"I don't remember you saying I couldn't borrow it. You had mine to use, if you needed one."

I'd been steering clear of the internet since my return. "Haven't touched your laptop," I said, cheerily, "You can dust it for fingerprints if you want to check."

"It has other forms of protection," said Sherlock. "Unlike your computer, which has entirely inadequate security. Honestly, John, you could at least try and be imaginative in your passwords. Especially given some of the material you have on the machine."

Here goes, I thought. Death or glory.

"What material are you talking about?" I said, mock-innocent.

Sherlock sat down at the other end of the sofa from me and thumbed my laptop open angrily. "The photos, John, I thought you didn't like having that kind of stuff on your laptop, in case you accidentally sent it to someone. And it's not exactly subtle is it? Explicit pictures of you, big red lettering in a hideous font, giving a number to call if you're 'interested'. I take it the number's one of the Vice Squad's private lines?"

"Yeah, I thought if the pictures did get out, they could cope with a few dodgy phone calls. But I didn't intend them to go anywhere. They've just been sitting quietly on my laptop, behind several layers of password. It would take someone looking quite hard to find them, someone who _wanted_ to find them."

"So they're for me, are they?" I looked across at him. Shark Sherlock back again, but I wasn't going to be fish food this time.

"If you're interested. You could run them as a slideshow, see which ones you prefer."

"Good idea," Sherlock said, and made a few additional clicks. His face, looking at the screen, was still sardonic, but his left arm had come round his body, as if trying to shield himself from my view. Part of himself.

"Image quality's not very good," he said.

"It's hard to take good photos when you've only got one hand free. And I did get distracted at times."

"By thoughts of me?"

"Of course. But I think you should look at me now, Sherlock, not my photos." I said, reaching out and closing the lid firmly. Sherlock snatched his hand away just in time, and then, placing the laptop on the floor, he slewed around to face me, crossing his legs, stretching out his arms behind his head. Trying to dispel the tension in his body, pretend it was all still a game.

"But I prefer you naked," he said, as easily if he was talking about a choice between honey and jam on his toast. And then, as if a switch had flicked off, the ease was gone; not even he could maintain that force field of controlled indifference any longer. He was silent for a few moments, and then growled out: "So I suggest you get naked right now, because if your trousers are getting as tight as mine, you'd really be more comfortable without them."

"In a minute," I said, and was surprisingly grateful I'd had several weeks resisting my own lust. "First we need to talk."

"Talking's overrated," Sherlock said, standing up and starting to unbutton his shirt.

"This time, we're going to talk first," I said firmly. "Because you're obviously no good at talking afterwards, and you're bloody incoherent during sex."

"Well you didn't want to listen then, did you?" Sherlock retorted. I was surprised to see that he had actually stopped taking his shirt off. "I wasn't sure last time if what you really wanted was sex or a fist fight. Anyhow, what is there to say? I want this. I presume you want this."

"It might be a help to check," I said.

There was a long silence, and then Sherlock's voice burst out: "I'm sorry!" I was stunned. Sherlock never apologises, at least sincerely. "It was really seriously not good."

"How do you mean?" I said, and waited.

Sherlock's speech centres had obviously seized up yet again at the prospect of genuine emotion. At last, he stammered out:

"I, I thought it was the easiest way...to make you realise. Like with the psychosomatic limp, get your body to react before your mind said: _No, I can't, I won't_. You wouldn't have listened if I'd told you what you wanted."

"And you couldn't tell me what _you_ wanted?"

He shook his head.

"It's not the same as the chase after the taxi," I went on.

"But if I'd been wrong about your leg," he said, his brows creasing, "you could have hurt yourself, maybe even fallen off a rooftop, killed yourself." I nodded. "I know I take risks with you, you let me. But even I can see that having sex with you when I'd got you so wound up was manipulative."

"You didn't make me do anything," I pointed out.

"No, but I was pushing you, trying to get you to react. Not...friendly."

"And you didn't like the reaction?"

"As I said, the sex was good...very good. Better than I've had for a long time. But I hadn't realised what it would be like afterwards. Like hydrofluoric acid."

"What?"

"You spill it on you, it doesn't hurt much at first, barely leaves a mark. And then it eats you up from the inside. I'd never felt like that before."

"So you told me you weren't interested the next day?" I said, staring up at him. I knew I ought to be furious, but it was a bit like getting annoyed with a cat for killing small birds.

"I didn't _say_ I wasn't interested," Sherlock protested. "I said let's do it another time."

"You sounded pretty damn uninterested."

Suddenly the words started flooding out of Sherlock:

"I realised I'd done it wrong , messed things up, and I didn't know how to fix it. And I know what you're like, John. If you're attracted to someone you make a move, you don't hang around. Except you didn't do anything when I said another time, so I presumed you didn't want more. And I'd obviously upset you, and I couldn't work out what to say..."

"You were trying not to manipulate me and just leaving me to make the next move?" I said. "No wonder I couldn't figure it out."

"But why didn't you look at my laptop again?" Sherlock demanded, as if this was some grievous offence. "Then I'd have known what you felt."

"I don't _need_ pictures of you, Sherlock. You're in my mind already, I can't _stop_ seeing you. Why should I want to remind myself of you all the time if I can't have you?" Sherlock stared silently at me, his eyes assessing me, logging me.

"Oh, my God," I said, as it hit me. "What else is there on your laptop? And are there more of me than of you, or don't I ask?"

"I couldn't find many pictures of anywhere," Sherlock replied. "And most of them are fairly boring, apart from this last lot. Can I take some more? Better ones?"

"Is it me you want or the photos?"

"Both. Everything, all of it. I can't think straight, John, how are you doing this to me?" He was running his hands through his hair, as if that would somehow unscramble his brain. "And have we got to keep talking? I can't say the things I should, I don't have the right words for what I feel."

"OK," I said, "but you are at least going to ask first this time, aren't you?"

"Right," he said, and his pale eyes fixed onto mine. "Would you, John Hilary Watson, like to come and have sex with me? And while we're at it, can I get advance approval for the whole of this week, and next, and..well, till further notice, which might be a rather long time. It would be more efficient, and...it's what I want, need." He almost spat the last words out, as if it physically hurt him to talk. And then he added, as if it was a foreign word he barely knew how to pronounce: "Please."

There were going to be no familiar landmarks if I did do this, I thought. And I still wasn't sure exactly what I was doing, or even quite who I was anymore. But I did know who Sherlock was, and what I felt about him, and maybe that was enough to start with.

"I would like to be with you for as long as you want," I said, and stood up and moved, almost calmly, towards Sherlock. "I suppose it's not the stupidest thing I've ever done."


End file.
